


when i wake up (let me breathe)

by catbrains



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Asphyxiation, Dom Michael, Dom/sub, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues, Sub Duncan, Violence, duncan has a lot of issues, i wrote this months ago and never uploaded it, michael is perhaps not the best, takes place after house of cards 6x5, this timeline doesn’t really make any sense at all i know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 18:23:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18900115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catbrains/pseuds/catbrains
Summary: After learning the truth about his own identity, Duncan Shepherd flees to a bar to drown his sorrows and pick up a pretty face.He certainly finds one in Michael Langdon, but he finds a lot more, too.





	when i wake up (let me breathe)

**Author's Note:**

> i...don’t really know what this is  
> i think i was just very interested in the dynamic of michael/duncan, and - with the encouragement of my boyfriend - this was pulled together somewhere between february and march, with a lot of difficulty
> 
> the timeline doesn’t make sense, nor does...well, anything, but here - enjoy some angst and what is essentially a duncan character study
> 
> also, y’all can tear sub!duncan from my cold, dead hands

To Duncan, the feeling of loneliness is - ironically - as familiar as an old friend.

To anybody looking in from the outside, that may seem to be an absurd sentiment; Duncan has always been surrounded by people, thanks to being born into such an affluent and influential family.  He was almost always at his mother’s side, for his whole life. As soon as he could walk, he was holding her hand and toddling after her into meetings and parties and press conferences, being handed around to be held by politicians and other important people, always instructed to smile for the cameras and be a good boy.

Really, those instructions never changed over the years.  The only difference was that he was no longer walking in hand-in-hand with his mother.  More often than not, he was walking in with his arm around the pretty daughter of whatever wealthy family his uncle was trying to form a stronger alliance with, or squeeze some money out of, but he was still always looking for the cameras to give them a nice smile and a nice picture to use in their articles so that everybody could think how handsome the Shepherd son is, and how nice the family is by extension.

 

For his whole life, he's despised such events.  He hates noise and crowded environments - hates people trying to touch him and talk to him, sometimes like they're trying to crawl into bed with him and sometimes like they're trying so desperately to get him to fuck up and say something that’ll ruin his family.

He's always been a _good boy_ , though.  He’ll protect the Shepherd family name before he’ll protect himself, and he'll smile his way through his date’s blandness and the taste of flat champagne and the wandering hands of overly-smiley weirdos if it'll make his uncle happy and make his mother tell him that he did a good job.

 

Thinking of his efforts now makes him feel nauseous.

Not exactly for the first time, he shares the seemingly common desire to burn the Shepherd family to the fucking ground.

He's not one of them.  It doesn't matter anymore.  It _never_ mattered.  

All of the shit he did for his mother, for his uncle, for the company and the app, the fucking Freedom Foundation, and none of it matters.

In a way far more all-consuming than he's ever felt before, he feels _used_.

Is this how the other employees feel? How the victims of the app feel?

 

Duncan lets out a deep sigh and rests his elbows against the bar in front of him, before burying his head in his hands.

How pathetic and deeply predictable for the hurt millionaire boy to run straight into the first expensive bar he finds - dark and modern, lit with subtle neon - but he hadn't been able to think of where else to go.  If he'd gone back to his apartment, his mother - _not_ his mother, not even his adoptive mother, just a woman who had stolen him - would've chased him there and she never would've left, or maybe she would've sent Seth to try and explain her plight, as if Duncan hates _him_ any less right now.

He hates everyone.  Especially himself. And that's a familiar feeling that he - as usual - is trying to drown with expensive whiskey and, presumably, the company of the first pretty thing that eyes him up.

 

“May I buy you a drink?”

Speaking of which.

 

The voice is deep - distinctly male, which catches Duncan’s attention.  He sits up just enough to turn to the stranger, and is met with the sight of a very tall and very handsome man with long golden hair and a quirk to his lips that immediately makes Duncan uncomfortable.  The guy is wearing a deep red velvet dinner jacket - ‘ _Tacky_ ’, Duncan thinks - and he somehow manages to both blend into the rest of the population of the bar while still sticking out like a sore thumb.

He's certainly not the type that Duncan’s ever met in a bar like this before, and while usually that would intrigue him, right now he wants something simple - some girl to fuck hard and then kick out of whatever hotel room he ends up buying for however long he plans to disappear.

 

“I appreciate the offer,” he says, and barely suppresses a scowl at how pathetic his voice sounds, made hoarse by all the tears he’d cried and all the things he’d yelled upon reading the contents of that fucking file.  “But I'm more than capable of buying my own drinks.”

The guy, to Duncan’s simultaneous surprise and chagrin, does not seem deterred by this.

“Oh, I’m aware.  That jacket certainly looks expensive.”  He reaches out and traces Duncan’s shoulder with a ring-adorned finger.  Again, Duncan thinks that it's tacky, and perhaps it would be on anyone else, but on this guy it looks sincere.  Gunmetal and large gemstones. “But it seemed rude to open a conversation with the observation that you look miserable.”

Duncan just looks at the guy for a moment, caught off-guard, and then he laughs hollowly.  He feels the dry tear tracks on his cheeks. “Astute observation, truly,” he says, shaking his head.  “Look, pardon my bluntness, but I’m sure there’s plenty more attractive young men or women in this establishment who would be grateful for your company.  If I’m looking for anything tonight, it’s just a girl to work some frustrations out with.”

 

The corner of the stranger’s lips quirks up again as he tilts his head, then slowly shakes it like he's reading something in Duncan’s face.

“No,” he says simply, like Duncan had guessed the wrong answer to a question that this guy knows the solution to with certainty.  “You're not looking for someone to use. You’re looking for someone to use you.”

And Duncan feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.  His skin prickles, but the stranger’s smile is still polite. “I’m...sorry?”

The stranger takes a slow step closer.

“You're trying to convince yourself that you want a pretty girl to fuck, to dominate, because that's the routine you've been taught by every man in your life.  If you're hurting, you take it out on a woman to soothe your own masculinity. But that's not what you want, is it? You’d much rather someone else took out their frustrations on you.”

Duncan tenses as the stranger’s hand touches his cheek.  The cold metal of a ring traces down his cheekbone, over the scratch of his stubble until it stops at his jaw, but he doesn't think to jerk away from it.  He doesn't want to.

 

“Wouldn't it be such a relief?” the stranger breathes, his eyes seeming to glint as the pale blue light above the two of them catches him in just the right way.  “To be held down and given some nice, simple orders? ‘Open your mouth.’ ‘Spread your legs.’ ‘Be good for me.’ To have someone praise you and reward you for doing as you're told?”

The silence that follows is pressing, like it’s demanding an answer.  The noise of the bar, of the music that's playing and the murmur of conversation, all seems to fade away.

Anxiously, almost imperceptibly, Duncan nods, and the stranger lets out a rich chuckle.

“Really, you look like you’d cum in your pants if someone called you a good boy and said they were proud of you.  Is that right? You like praise?”

The stranger hooks a finger gently beneath Duncan’s chin and tilts his head up, and Duncan feels an unfamiliar rush go through him as he looks up at the stranger from under his lashes.

It takes him a moment to realise that he's immensely turned on, albeit still unsettled.

 

Suddenly, he blinks like he’s awoken from a trance and jerks away.  Of course, he should've realised it sooner. How had he allowed himself to get swept up in the man’s charms for even a moment?

“Who sent you?” he demands, face burning.  “Who are you working for?”

Would Claire really be so cruel as to send someone to chase him? Would she even know that he’s missing? Maybe somebody else had noticed him come in and decided to snatch up the opportunity to catch him vulnerable and alone.

Again, the thought makes him feel disgusted with himself, but the stranger just blinks at him in what appears to be genuine confusion.

“I don't work for anyone,” he says, tilting his head just slightly.  “Well, no one like I imagine you're implying. Are you asking me if I’m a prostitute?”

Duncan scoffs, running a hand harshly down his face and scrunching his eyes shut.  “No. I don't give a shit. I know you're just here to get some dirt on me, so you can fuck off.   _God_ , I should've known as soon as I saw you looking at me like that...”

 

Duncan isn't sure what he expects.  Whether he expects that handsome, polite persona to crack and reveal something more vicious underneath - he's been screamed at plenty of times by women who have failed to seduce him, and punched by plenty of men - or for the stranger to just scoff and walk away.  But the stranger just shakes his head.

“I have no idea who you are.  But you seem to be implying that you're somebody important, and you seem to have had a long day.  So -”

The stranger sits down on the bar stool beside Duncan.

“Why don't you tell me who you are?”

 

Suddenly, Duncan is reminded of the psychologist sessions that his mother had forced him into after his first major run-in with drugs - the first time he’d gotten caught, at least.  The stranger in front of him now doesn't look much like any of the stony-faced men or cold-hearted women he’d been ordered to spill his heart out to all because they had a doctorate and the ability to prescribe him some cocktail of drugs to sort out whatever was wrong with him - because there _had_ to be something wrong with him, why else would a boy with so much smuggle drugs into the dormitory of his prep school and get high like he had shit to forget - but Duncan still somehow feels that same pressure.  The need to confess, like this stranger can make it all better.

Not that any of the doctors had managed.

 

Duncan smiles hollowly down at the near-empty whiskey glass in front of him and shakes his head.

“Maybe I would if I knew.”

And then he lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sob and gulps down the last of his drink, focusing on the burn of it going down his sore throat.  Perhaps any normal person - certainly any of the regular types that try and seduce him in bars - would take this as their cue to leave him to his drama.  But instead the stranger calmly gestures for the bartender and Duncan’s glass is refilled.

Only once the bartender has walked away again does Duncan dare to speak.

“I thought I told you you didn't need to buy me a drink,” he says quietly, and the stranger hums.

“You don't have to drink it.  But if you don't want to talk it out or fuck it out, it seems like the only thing I could provide to help you.”

“Why would you want to help me? Like I said, there's plenty of other people in here that you could get into bed with.”

 

Gently - like Duncan is likely to startle - the stranger reaches out again and traces his cheek.

“There is,” he agrees.  “But none are as interesting as you.  Your heart beats with pain and sin. I could smell it on you like blood as soon as I saw you.”

Somehow, it's not the weirdest thing that anyone’s ever said to Duncan in a bar.

Somehow, the words reignite the arousal that the stranger had managed to stir in him.

“This isn't a confessional,” the stranger continues.  “I'm not a priest. I can't grant you God’s forgiveness, nor can I absolve you of your misdeeds.”

Slowly, he cups the side of Duncan’s face - almost reverently - and Duncan can't help but lean into the warm hand.

“Who are you, then?” he asks quietly.  “What _can_ you do?”

The stranger smiles at him.  His eyes seem to darken.

“My name is Michael Langdon.  And I can't do much. But perhaps, just for tonight, I can give you what you need.”

 

The air surrounding them seems to both heat up and grow colder in the same instant.  Again, as Duncan stares into the stranger’s eyes - an icy blue identical to his own - he feels as if he gets lost.

He searches for a while, wandering, until he finds himself again.  But it's not quite _him_ , except it is.  It's more _him_ than he is - an honest version of himself, vulnerable and hurt and so desperate for approval from anyone who is willing to give it.  He feels alone, desperately so, like the tentative place he thought he had in the world has simply ceased to exist and now he's floating, as helpless as a child.

But, really, he's always felt like that.  The only difference now is there's not even the shallow image of a family for him to cling to - no doting mother for him to run back into the arms of.

He hesitates for a moment, still staring into Michael Langdon’s eyes and feeling that large, warm hand against his cheek.

And then he starts talking.

 

He tells Michael everything.  He starts at the beginning. He talks about his mother and father and uncle, about the Shepherds and their wealth and influence and how he’d resented it as soon as he understood it - as soon as he understood that the kids at school only played with him because their parents told them to, because those parents wanted what his family had.

He talks about the preparatory school he’d attended, about the roommates he’d fumbled around with until he got caught and given detention for months, as well as many stern talkings-to about how cruel it was of him to risk disgracing his family like that.  He talks about the drugs and the dealers, about the psychologists and therapists who couldn't help him - about the medication his Uncle Bill refused to let him have.

 

He talks about his mother.  He talks about how much he loves her, how she’s the only person he’s ever truly wanted to make happy and that's why he agreed to play the part he did - working for the family company and using his intellect to make that godforsaken app for them, his life’s work which is going to ruin him if things keep going the way they are.

And tears drip down his cheeks once again as he then tells the agonising truth that he'd learnt only a few hours previously - that his mother is not his mother.  That he's not a Shepherd, not even by name, because Annette didn't even _adopt_ him, and Michael listens to his every word with sincerity in his gaze but seemingly not an ounce of surprise - like it’s a story he's heard before but still likes to listen to.

 

By the end of it, Duncan is a mess.  He's crying again, like he’d cried in his uncle’s hotel room and cried in the car and cried in this very seat a short while before Michael had appeared.  He feels pathetic - it's not the sort of sight that he’d usually ever dream of letting anybody see, but right now he isn't even trying to hide from Michael’s piercing gaze.

He doesn't flinch as that warm hand moves against his cheek, turning his head so that he faces Michael properly.  The coldness of Michael’s rings feels nice against Duncan’s overheated skin, and maybe he opens his mouth to try and express that, but he never gets a chance to because Michael is pulling him forwards and connecting their lips.

 

Michael’s lips are soft and warm and plush, like many of the girls that Duncan has kissed, but Michael doesn't kiss like they do.  Michael is controlling and all-consuming, and he sweeps Duncan up like a hurricane. That gentle hand against Duncan’s cheek becomes an anchor point, holding him in place while Michael just _takes_ , and it's the sweetest feeling even though somewhere in the back of Duncan’s mind he's trying to say that he hates it.

He doesn't want to think.  He just wants to obey whatever Michael asks him to do, and it seems that Michael breaks the kiss in the same moment that Duncan completes that thought.

“Good boy,” Michael whispers, and Duncan almost keens.

 

He’s sure he looks disgusting - his eyes red and his face wet - and he's sure that his nose is running too, but Michael doesn't seem to mind.  His gaze is heavy, his eyes darkened from a pale blue sky to vicious storm clouds, and for a while he just looks at Duncan, gaze roaming over his features and his body like he's toying with his building desperation, until finally he speaks.

“Do you have a hotel room?” he asks, and Duncan immediately scrambles for his phone in his pocket.

“I can get one,” he says, just a little too quickly, and Michael’s eyes seem to sparkle with a certain sort of amusement - not that Duncan sees.  “I’ll call a ride, too. God, I hope Mom won't bother to have my card tracked…”

“Is that a bad thing?” Michael asks.  “If she finds you?”

Duncan hesitates.  After a moment, watching the screen of his phone, he shrugs.  “I don't want to be found right now. If I’m nothing, I want to _be_ nothing.”

 

Michael doesn't respond to that.  He watches as Duncan sorts out their ride and the hotel room, and - just before they leave - he picks up the whiskey that Duncan hadn't touched and swallows it down in one smooth motion.  He places the money for it down on the bar, then places the glass atop it, and then he’s turning around gracefully and a large hand is settling against the small of Duncan’s back in a manner that makes a subtle shiver run through Duncan’s frame.  It's the sort of thing he does to women all the time - the sort of thing he doesn't even think about - but to have it done to him is wildly different.

He feels eyes follow the both of them as they leave the bar.  Some women bite their lips, some men’s eyes almost seem to flash, and Michael lets out a chuckle.

“I’m sure they’d like to join us,” he comments, leaning in to whisper right in Duncan’s ear.  “Or perhaps they're just imagining what I’m about to do to you.”

 

And Duncan can't pretend that he doesn't like the idea of that.  Anyone looking at them right now can see that Michael is so clearly in charge, they can see that hand against Duncan’s spine leading him easily through the throng of people, and they know that Duncan is about to be fucked within an inch of his life.  Just that is enough to make another rush of heat spark within Duncan, and he finds himself wanting to rush out into the cool night air to find their ride and probably make out a little too much in the back of it. He can't remember the last time he was this eager for a hook-up, but Michael certainly feels like something that doesn't come around often or easily.

Thankfully, Duncan quickly picks out the sleek black car that's waiting for them - a private driver he sincerely hopes his mother won't be able to track down and question.  He’d already texted the driver the hotel they're headed for, so he just climbs in the back alongside Michael and thanks God that the partition has already been rolled up.

 

As soon as the car pulls off, Michael pounces on him - far more smoothly and elegantly than anyone has ever pounced on Duncan before.  A hand holds his jaw, holds him in place, and then Michael’s kissing him again, but this time it's deeper, hungrier - possibly because they no longer have an audience.  Michael is all tongue and teeth, attacking Duncan’s lips until the taste of iron hits his taste buds, but Duncan isn't at all interested in trying to stop him. He tries to return the kiss with the same vigour, tries to fight back and gain some dominance, just to see if he can, but as soon as he catches Michael’s bottom lip between his teeth some unseen force seems to grab him and shove him backwards, pulling a startled grunt from him.  A moment later he's immobile, held in place like he's paralysed, and Michael is gazing down at him, eyes blazing and ice cold at the same time.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, voice low and smooth, and Duncan’s mind screams ‘ _danger_ ’ even though Michael still looks entirely calm.  “That I won't bow to you like everyone else does? Even after all of that in the bar, have you decided that you want to be in control after all? You want to _dominate_?”

 

Duncan still doesn't quite understand what's happening.  He can't move, even though Michael isn't even touching him.  It's as if the air itself has turned solid, holding him where he is, and the feeling of vulnerability and the ensuing anxiety that washes over him makes him want to run.  Perhaps this was a bad idea after all. There is a certain energy surrounding Michael that Duncan can only really feel now that they're alone together, closed in - an energy of danger and darkness and every awful thing that Duncan has ever seen or thought or felt, radiating from Michael’s skin like the earthy tones of an expensive cologne.

Michael could eat Duncan alive.  He could tear him limb from limb - break his neck or break his heart.  

Somehow, Duncan feels like he wouldn't find back.  Like he _couldn't_ fight back, and that helplessness is terrifying but so deeply addictive.

 

Like the peace of knowing you're beyond saving.  Of knowing that you don't have to fight anymore.

 

“Please,” Duncan whispers, without even knowing what he's begging for - whether he's begging for Michael to let him flee or for Michael to kiss him again.

Michael’s expression is empty, but his eyes are boring into Duncan’s like he can see every truth behind them, and see seems to find the answers that Duncan himself can't see.

“You're nothing,” he says easily, a simple observation, and Duncan feels his eyes burn but he nods - nods like he's accepting an undeniable truth.  His limited mobility apparently allows him that much.

Almost imperceptibly, the corner of Michael’s mouth turns up, and he tilts his head.  “You're nothing to me. You're nothing to anyone, not your mother or your uncle - even your real parents.  You’re just a lost little boy so desperate to please anyone who’ll give him the time of day.” Michael’s eyes narrow and Duncan hiccups, not even daring to blink, but then Michael smiles - slow and so, so dangerous.  “Don't you want to please me?”

 

Duncan does, more desperately than he's ever wanted anything.  He wants Michael’s attention, Michael's approval, Michael's praise, as if it will make up for every achievement as a child that earned him nothing but a disinterested glance from his uncle or a hand shooing him away from his mother while she talked endlessly on the phone.

Michael’s rejection feels as if it would be a tipping point.  He's so terrified of it, but Michael’s lip curls up just that tiny bit more, even though Duncan hasn't said a word.  He leans closer, close enough that Duncan can actually smell his skin.

Michael doesn't smell like cologne.  He doesn't smell like anything that Duncan could describe.  He smells the way despair feels, the way frustration makes your stomach knot, the way grief makes your lungs ache, but it’s not unpleasant.

Duncan finds himself wanting to bury his face against Michael’s neck to inhale more of it.  He wants it to fill his lungs, but he finds himself unable to breathe at all when one of Michael’s hands fits itself suddenly around his throat - tight like a promise.

 

“If you want to please me,” Michael breathes, his breath hot like there's a fire in his lungs, “Submit yourself to me entirely.  Let go of every inhibition. Let me own you. Let me fuck you until you pass out. Let me tie you to the bedposts so tightly that you'll never be able to escape until I finally deign to show you mercy.  Let me spill your fucking blood at my own will. Fall to your knees and _worship_ me like you've never before worshipped anyone but yourself.”

Duncan sobs.  He isn't crying, though his eyes are blurred with unshed tears - a confusing mix of terror and arousal and guilt and shame.

“I will,” he whispers, hoarse and breathless, but Michael’s grip tightens.  “Please! I’m yours! You can do whatever you want with me. Fuck me, or--or kill me, it doesn't matter.  It doesn't matter, I’m nothing, please.”

 

When Michael’s hand finally, finally pulls away, he almost passes out.  Michael only smiles.

“We’re here.”

A moment later, the car stops and the driver is using the intercom to relay the same message.  Duncan presses the button and mumbles something he himself doesn't hear, whether it's a ‘thank you’ or a ‘leave now’ or a ‘don't tell my mother’.  He's more focused on taking Michael’s outstretched hand - the same one which had been wrapped around his throat only moments ago - and allowing himself to be helped out of the car as if he's Michael’s beloved girlfriend.  The sky is pitch black but the street is well-lit by the front of the luxurious hotel, almost blinding Duncan as he stumbles up the steps and doesn't dare meet the eyes of the doorman. Michael’s hand is against the small of his back again.

God, Michael’s fucking _hands_.

 

The foyer of the hotel is no warmer than the outside.  It's modern like the bar had been - monochrome in its colour palette, minimalist in its interior design, just like Duncan likes everything to be, but once again Michael looks entirely out of place.  He's a splash of harsh deep red against the white marble floors, like a pool of blood, and the desk staff seem to visibly tense as he approaches, like they can see something in him or smell something on him.

_Danger, danger, danger_.

Duncan, still stuck to Michael’s side, watches the exchange that takes place.  He watches the expressions of anxiety that flicker across the receptionist’s face, but he doesn't hear a word that's spoken.  He isn't sure how Michael manages to get through the transaction when it's Duncan who purchased the room, but in what seems to be an instant there are two key cards being handed to Michael and then Michael is steering Duncan away.

 

Duncan assumes, of course, that they’re heading straight for the elevator, but they head past it - into a nook of the lobby populated by black leather benches and lined on one side by vending machines, all sparkling and brand new - the highest of tech.  

“What, are you thirsty?” Duncan scoffs, rude despite his earlier declaration of submission, and Michael laughs.  He lets go of Duncan and steps towards the vending machine on the end, and that's when Duncan realises that Michael isn't after a bottle of water.  The machine on the end is filled with a frankly unnecessarily large selection of condoms and lube, more well-stocked than the average drug store, and Duncan feels shame paint his face red as Michael begins to casually peruse his options.  “You can't be fucking serious,” he hisses, looking over to the front desk in terror that someone is watching them. “Everyone can _see_ us!”

They're a fair distance away from the front desk, far enough that they can't be heard, but they're still in plain sight should anyone choose to glance over.  

 

Michael glances to the side at Duncan and raises an eyebrow.

“And? It's been obvious since we walked out of the bar together exactly what we were going to do.  I even kissed you in front of everyone. Why are you embarrassed now?”

Duncan falters.  He stammers for a while, struggling to find how exactly to convey that it's easy for him to get lost in himself in bars and similar places.  In those places, he can pretend that nothing matters. When it's just him and others like him - drunk and driven by lust - he can allow men to kiss up his neck and grip his waist just the same as he does to women in far less private settings.  He can tug some pretty guy into the hallway and drop down to his knees to suck his dick like he's desperate for it, can let someone push him into a bathroom stall and get three fingers inside of him until he's cursing as he cums and then swearing to God that if anyone ever finds out about it he’ll have the guy fucking killed.

 

It's rare for him to go back to hotel rooms with guys, though - for precisely this reason.  As soon as he leaves the bar, and that glittering high of unreality fades away, shame washes over him.  It always does anyway, always leaves him cold and numb when he finally gets home, but in that intermission between the bar and the hotel room it leaves him embarrassed and terrified.

He thinks of those teachers at prep school who had caught him all those times, sucking some upperclassman’s dick in the bathroom between classes or on all fours on his roommate’s bed, trying desperately to silence his noises as he was fucked hard and fast in a haze of weed and clumsy teenage experimentation.  He thinks about the things they’d said to him - words of disgust and shame and disappointment, threats to tell his mother and break her heart and ruin his life, because that's what it all was.

Shameful and heartbreaking and life-ruining.

 

How ironic that he’d never once listened to what his teachers told him - he didn't follow instructions or do as he was told or take their advice to heart, but that single lesson to hate himself was the one thing that had sunk into his soul in a way he could never shake - in a way he couldn't even _express_ in those psychologist appointments.

It wasn't all sexual.  So much of it was entirely innocent - the crushes he got on the older boys, and the hours he'd spend in class fidgeting and not paying a single bit of attention as he imagined himself holding hands with one of them, sharing their first kiss - or maybe it wouldn't be his crush’s first kiss, maybe his crush would be experienced and be slow and gentle as he made Duncan feel good.

But the shame had set in before he had a chance to share an innocent schoolboy romance.  It all felt poisoned - thinking about holding a large, calloused hand made him feel guilty, thinking about thin, dry lips tracing his jaw made him want to cry.  It was bad and wrong, he shouldn't want it, so he pushed it all away.

Sex was all that was left.

 

He hadn't been raised devout Catholic, nor was his prep school particularly strict, but those values - that sex was something purely for reproduction, that sex for pleasure and masturbation were entirely disgusting and wrong - had been undeniably fed to him and every other boy there.  But, thanks to that, he felt none of that much deeper shame during the act of jerking his roommate off or rutting against a friend in the empty changing rooms after gym class. He could focus on the shallow sin of the sexual act in itself, and the shame of what he wanted so badly but couldn't have would only come to haunt him when he was lay in bed at night - just like it still does today.

 

Duncan jolts when he feels a warm palm rest against his cheek, so lost in the unpleasant memories that for a moment he thinks he's been slapped.  There's no pain, though, and he manages to focus on Michael stood in front of him, his expression - surely for the first time - not empty nor curled in a sort of arrogant amusement.  There's a slight pinch to his brows, a slight downturn to his lips.

“You're ashamed.”

It's not a question.  It's an assured statement, just like everything else that Michael has said about Duncan, but it stings far more deeply than anything else had.

“It's wrong,” is all he can say, like that's enough to explain all of the pain and insecurity that lives within him, but Michael shakes his head.  He drops something onto the bench behind Duncan and then cups the other side of his face, and then he's pulling Duncan in for another kiss, though this one isn't seductive or lust-driven or violent.  It's just a kiss, slow and deep and soothing, and Duncan sinks into it easily until the ache that had ignited in his heart melts away again into those awful memories that it had come from.

 

He realises, as Michael pulls away, that it's perhaps the first kiss he's shared with a man that didn't feel sexual.  He wonders with a certain sort of anxiety if it will be the last.

“You think so loudly.”

Duncan blinks.  His face is still held gently between Michael’s hands - they're stood almost chest-to-chest, in a gesture undeniably intimate and trusting, and he thinks to step back but then realises that he doesn't want to, whether they're being watched or not.  He still scoffs, though. “What does that mean?”

Michael shakes his head slowly.  He's staring right into Duncan’s eyes again, focused like he's reading a book.

“Your mind is so busy.  Always racing, so full of awful things.  Insecurities and anxieties and traumas. Self-criticism and the criticising words of others, playing on a torturous loop to remind you how to behave, how to hold yourself, but you've got it all so nicely wrapped up in that cold shell of yours.”  

It's an insult, surely.  Some sort of mockery. It reminds Duncan of the way Claire had spoken to him, when she had known the truth that he had been blind to, but before he can think any more Michael’s lips are pressed against his again.

 

This time it's only for a moment, then Michael is pulling away and looking into Duncan’s eyes again, his own alight with a very particular realisation.

“The only time it's quiet is when I kiss you.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, but Duncan feels his cheeks burn as soon as he understands.  Whether it's shame or embarrassment or anger, it's enough to make him jerk rather violently away, finding a small amount of satisfaction in the way Michael startles and draws his hands back to his sides.

“You know,” Duncan says, voice low and utterly devoid of any sort of patience, “My _mind_ would probably be even quieter if you were wrecking me like you were saying you would, rather than standing here talking out of your ass like you understand me better than I understand myself.  Or have _you_ decided that it's too much? Even though you were promising to spill my fucking blood only a few minutes ago? Where did all of that fucking bravado go?”

And then a hand is fitting itself around his throat again, dragging him forwards and then shoving him up against a large marble column just out of sight of the front desk, hard enough to make his head spin and almost wind him.

 

“Shit,” he breathes, heart racing, and Michael tightens his grip, leans in so that their noses almost touch, their breath mingling in the cool air.

“Not grateful at all, hm? I was being kind to you, and yet here you are acting like a brat.”  His fingers curl even tighter and Duncan lets out a wheeze in the same moment that he realises that he's hard.  Michael chuckles, but it's empty of humour or affection. “It's like you can't make up your mind whether you want to be coddled or abused.  Loved or hated. ‘Which is scarier? Which hurts more? Which one makes me more vulnerable?’ Another mantra, a constant stream of questions, bouncing around in that pretty little head of yours.  Do you really need me to shut you up so badly?”

_Yes,_ Duncan thinks, without hesitation.

“Shut the fuck up,” he chokes out, after too long a pause.  He expects Michael’s grip to tighten, or for that hand to drag him forwards just to shove him back against the pillar again, perhaps hard enough for him to smack his head this time, but instead the grip loosens and then drops entirely.

 

He’s gulping in air before he has a chance to doubt Michael’s mercy, coughing and gasping, but Michael doesn't grab him again.  He doesn't move at all. He just watches until Duncan’s breathing is mostly regular, and then he steps back.

“Go up to our room,” he orders, voice level.  “Or leave. Those are your two options.”

Duncan coughs again.  He thinks to meet Michael’s eyes, defiant, but his own gaze is swimming with tears from the asphyxiation.  It takes him a few long moments to even gather his voice. “I’m the one who paid for the fucking room.”

The chuckle that Michael lets out, looming above Duncan’s hunched frame, is positively vicious.  “That's what you're worried about?” he mocks. “Money? A sense of fairness? You could buy a room in every hotel in the city right now if you wanted to.  I'm giving you the option. Either walk away right now and buy yourself another five star room to cry yourself to sleep in, or go up to the room you so kindly paid for here and wait for me to _make_ you cry.  You have thirty minutes.  An hour, at the most.”

 

Michael steps away then, makes as if he's going to walk away altogether, and Duncan forces himself to speak again before he’s prepared himself enough for it.

“Where the fuck are you going?”

His voice sounds like that of a panicked child, made pitchy and desperate by the abuse to his windpipe, but it succeeds in making Michael pause, the heels of his boots clicking against the marble floor.

“I’m going to the bar.  I’m going to sit there and wait while you make whatever decision you're going to, and then I’m going to go up to the room.  Either you’ll be gone, or you’ll be undressed and waiting on the bed for me like a good boy.”

Without waiting for Duncan’s reaction, Michael continues until he reaches the bench he’d dropped something on earlier, and there he picks up his wallet and one of the two room keys.  He pauses, looking down at the black leather where one of the key cards still sits, and then he finally turns back to look at Duncan.

“You fear your anger,” he says.  “It makes you feel vulnerable and childish, so you overcompensate by cursing too much.”  He stares, and Duncan stares back, both of them silent and motionless, until Michael’s lips curl into an unkind smile.  “It just makes you sound even more like a boy.”

 

And then he walks away, leaving the other key on the bench for Duncan to take with him upstairs or return to the front desk as he leaves, just the same as he leaves Duncan’s pounding heart stuck in his swollen throat.

Perhaps he should go.  Considering he’d given himself the all-too-attainable criteria of “something simple” with tonight’s hookup, this failure is tremendous, but it's still relatively early.  Past midnight, sure, but he could catch a ride straight to any club in the city and walk out soon enough with _something simple_ hanging off his arm.

But, unavoidably, he finds his mind drifting straight back to Michael - the beautiful man who now holds almost every secret that Duncan swore he’d never share with anybody.  The dangerous entity who can see through Duncan’s exterior as if it's made of glass and lay him bare to pick apart and assess. The enigma that Duncan cannot even begin to understand, even if Michael seems to know everything about him - far more than Duncan had shared, even if he had shared a lot.

 

Maybe he should go.  Maybe he should run screaming, or sit and call his mother, or maybe he should just throw himself off the nearest bridge to really give the media a field day if they haven't already got a hundred photos of him with Michael.

What a picture they could paint of the handsome and mysterious bachelor Duncan Shepherd with just that.  How they could unpick and unravel every effort he's ever put into maintaining the image that his family want him to have, every agonising moment he’s spent being a _good boy_.

 

Perhaps if he was still a Shepherd, there would be no consideration going into it at all.  He’d walk away right now and start planning how to rebuild what may or may not be broken, before the media can take “gay” and “depressed” and run with it - before his uncle can find out and scream at him for the rest of his life, before his mother can find out and be so dreadfully disappointed.

But he's not a Shepherd.  He’s not anything else, either.  He's just Duncan, and he's tired and hurt and angry and lonely and all he can think about is Michael, who had offered him the simple favour of giving him what he wants - what he needs - for one single night.  

Maybe the world will keep turning just the same as it always does tomorrow, or maybe it will be tilted entirely on its axis for Duncan, but for once in his life he wants to live in this singular moment.

 

So he inhales and he steps away from the pillar and he collects the key card from the bench, and then he makes his way towards the elevator, thinking of bruised knees and dry handjobs and the lips & hands of pretty boys.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!  
> please leave a comment if you enjoyed, or just, uhh...leave quietly if you didn’t  
> later!
> 
> tumblr @gallabstract


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